


Ever the Addict

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: The Abominable Bride, M/M, Moriarty is Dead, Oscar Wilde References, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining Sherlock, Post-Series, Recreational Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sherlock-centric, The Tarmac Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 10:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5703880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He couldn’t tell him. It was the last chance he had to say it; to speak the words he so desperately needed John to hear, but his hands were tied. He had been forced to resign himself to the fact that he would go to his death with John Watson never knowing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ever the Addict

**Author's Note:**

> This was an interesting one for me because of the Victorian Era Mind Palace scene, which I've never written before. These are my thoughts on the Sherlock special and all it's glory.

 

 

He pauses on the threshold, taking a moment to absorb everything. He stares blankly into his own living room; unsure of how he feels.

 

He’d had no intention of ever returning here.

 

It had been different the first time he went away; he’d been fighting to return. There had been hope for him, everything he was working for leading up to the moment of stepping back through this door.

 

John hadn’t known it then, but he’d always been coming back.

 

It was ironic really, because this time John _would_ have been waiting, labouring under the impression of a six month deadline. Only for Sherlock to never return.

 

He’d asked Mycroft not to tell him the truth; a lie by omission, and as cruel as it was to give a man false hope, John would have lived on, and he thinks perhaps that it would have been crueller not to give him that. He refuses to allow history to repeat itself, this will not be like last time, he can do better.

 

It would have been different, without that terrible finality, and Sherlock _has_ to believe, that the thought of Sherlock being alive; out there somewhere, would have helped him, making it easier to sleep at night.

 

He thinks in not telling John, it would have allowed him to cope better.

 

He couldn’t put John through that again, because even if he _had_ known the truth, the denial would still linger, he would never accept that Sherlock was really dead this time; he’d faked it once, why not again?

 

That denial would turn into obsession until it was all consuming; searching tirelessly around the globe for evidence of Sherlock’s continued existence. John would never find closure, there would always be that nagging doubt in the back of his mind; what if?

 

He knows because in John’s place, he would never have been able to give up, no matter how slim the chance that he may see him again.

 

That was no way to live, John had a family; a daughter now, he shouldn’t have to spend his life chasing the shadows of a dead man. Sherlock didn’t want John searching for him, he wanted him to move on; to embrace the future and let their life together fade into the background.

 

But it hadn’t all been selfless, for how could Sherlock tell him that he was being shipped off to die? How could he possibly look into his face and cripple him once more? It would hurt too much to come clean; it wasn’t just John he was protecting.

 

It was cowardice, but he couldn’t face John; to see his desperation. He couldn’t bear to hear John beg him to stay; to find a way out, to assure him that this wasn’t the end. Sherlock was not strong enough to look John in the eye and have them both know that it was over.

 

He’d held him at a distance with a firm handshake, when he wanted nothing more than to throw himself forward, to wrap his arms around John Watson and cling to him.

 

He yearned to touch him, to hold him close, to indulge; to share the forbidden intimacy he’d so longed for.

 

He’d never allowed himself to take that final step, to take the risk, to lay himself open; afraid of what might happen, of what he might lose. He couldn’t help but think of what might have been if he’d chosen that path, what he had missed out on; the life they could have had together, if only he’d had the courage to admit to himself that he wanted it.

 

He does, he wants it more than anything; he understands that now.

 

But that clarity had come far too late, and now the one thing he needs the most is the one thing he can never have. Because he knows that if John had taken him into his arms then, he never would have been able to let him go.

 

He couldn’t tell him. It was the last chance he had to say it; to speak the words he so desperately _needed_ John to hear, but his hands were tied. He had been forced to resign himself to the fact that he would go to his death with John Watson never knowing.

 

He’d been on a knife’s edge as it was, he was falling apart, and John asking him to stay would have been the final straw. He’d reached his limits; one wrong word could have broken him, and he’d needed John to hold it together, to be strong enough for both of them, because he had nothing left to give.

 

He couldn’t even make it through the _censored_ version sober, he can’t imagine how hard it would have been if John had known the truth.

 

It would have been traumatic for everyone had they been forced to manhandle him aboard the plane; crying and screaming that he didn’t want to go. A pitiful end; that’s not how he wants them to remember him. No one wanted to see him go out that way.

 

He’d had to shoot himself full of drugs, just to say goodbye. He couldn’t have survived it otherwise, and as it turned out; he nearly didn’t. He’d been high, barely coherent, for his last conversation with John Watson.

 

He hates himself for it; he wanted the last memory of him to be crystal clear, to sear it into his mind, to treasure it for the rest of his short life. But the drugs had muddied the waters, clouding their last moments together in this world.

 

Ever the addict, he’d backed out of it, choosing the fix over the clarity he desperately needed. The moment should have been pure, it should have been meaningful, but he’d been weak; corrupting it with a cloud of narcotics, and now John _knew_.

 

How he must look in John’s eyes; a man so pathetic that he couldn’t make it through such an important moment without giving in to temptation, running away from his emotions; dulling the pain.

 

John must think that it meant so little to him, that their friendship is worth nothing in his eyes, because he couldn’t bring himself to do any better than _this_.

 

He’d owed it to John to try; this had been John’s goodbye too, even if he hadn’t known it. These were their final moments, John’s last chance to see him, and Sherlock had robbed it from him.

 

He hadn’t had the strength, the _sincerity_ to do this right; this one vital task; for John.

 

He hadn’t believed it at first, always seeing the best in him; refuting Mycroft’s claims;

 

“No, he can do this. I’ve seen it – the Mind Palace. It’s like a whole world in his head.”

 

The horror; the _disappointment_ in his eyes when he saw the list was devastating. Seeing John learn the truth, watching his face fall as he read the incriminating evidence, all the drugs polluting his system; Sherlock truly understood what Mary had meant when she gave John that USB stick.

 

_‘Don’t read it in front of me, because you won’t love me when you’ve finished, and I don’t want to see that happen.’_

 

And it was Mary too who had delivered the death blow, tearing apart his defences, exposing his heart, and sharing its contents with the world.

 

Her words stung like treachery, as she told the room what it is he has really been doing; reminiscing of the day they met.

 

It was agony, and he’d wanted to melt into the seat, to escape their knowing pity. He’s never felt more humiliated in his life; strung out and emotionally compromised, caught indulging, clinging to the memory of John’s friendship.

 

He’s not the genius hero John thought him to be, he’s unmasked. They see him as he is; a pathetic junkie, crying on an aeroplane, pining for his married best friend.

 

He knows those words, he’d read that post a thousand times, hearing John’s voice paint him in such a beautiful light.

 

He read their beginning, reliving it over and over again; John calling him charming right off the bat, not put off in the slightest by his rude arrogance. He wasn’t being intentionally flattering when he wrote it, it was just raw honesty; he couldn’t have known Sherlock would read it, that he would cherish it.

 

He loves the way John sees him, recounting his life with such care and intimacy, and it had torn him apart to know that this was the end.

 

He’d needed that final comfort; flying to his death, overdosing on a morphine-benzoylmethylecgonine cocktail in a half-hearted bid to do this on his own terms. If he had to die, to take his own life, he needed to know that he’d _mattered_ to someone, and he’d want his last thoughts to be of John Watson.

 

Sentiment.

 

But now it’s _not_ the end, and he’s not sure how to proceed.

 

For all his bravado, he has _no idea_ what Moriarty’s next move will be, or who will be orchestrating it, but he must come up with an answer fast, must give them something.

 

He would have said anything, anything at all to avoid going back to that cell. It’s the reason he agreed to this in the first place.

 

Mycroft had been right; it was his worst nightmare.

 

One more day between those featureless concrete walls and he would have simply ceased to be, breaking down from the deafening silence, from the voices in his own head. It had been more painful than the bullet that tore through him.

 

He’d barely moved in seven days, no room to pace, no room to think. He hadn’t uttered a single syllable until he stepped out onto that tarmac, but his mind had been screaming wordlessly, his head full of it, screaming and screaming until there was no room for anything else.

 

He had been tempted, on more than one occasion, to smash his head against the wall, over and over until his skull cracked and his brain swelled; just to make it stop.

 

He’d wanted to cry when they released him, wanted to wail and cling to his brother for dear life. But people were watching, and they could never let them know this was an action born from familial sentiment.

 

If they’d known that Mycroft had been saving him in sending him to his death, they would have gladly let him rot.

 

He sat through the debrief without hearing a word, mind struggling to adjust with the sensory overload. He nodded and looked chastised in the right places, shocked by how different life was without the constant screaming.

 

A few days, alone with himself; that was all it had taken for him to almost completely lose his mind.

 

He’s glad that they’d escorted him directly to the airfield, rather than keeping him incarcerated whilst they worked out the finer details. Because he’s certain he would have had a psychotic break right there and then had they attempted to return him to solitary confinement, and who knows what damage that would cause. Someone might have wound up dead.

 

Upon seeing the sky he’d frozen, he’d known nothing but that cell for so long; he had almost forgotten it existed. It had taken three whole minutes before Mycroft’s condescending tones broke through, and he’d turned to him, utterly blank.

 

Mycroft was playing at being ruthless, and it had been a good act, but he could see the fear in his brother’s face.

 

They stopped off at Mycroft’s estate on the way, and he managed to slip away from his hefty entourage, escaping to all the filthy hovels in the city, buying anything he could get his hands on, before returning undetected.

 

~

 

He steps into the room, the flat looks the same, but he can’t relax; one wrong move and they’ll cart him away again, locking him up, confining him forever. He wouldn’t last a day.

 

They probably still have him under 24 hour surveillance, it would make sense, they can’t have him running loose, after all; he’s a _murderer_ now.

 

Sherlock had put a great deal of thought into how he might extinguish a life, what ingenious method he might devise, yet when the moment had finally come; there was not a scrap of mystery to be found. His crime was truly uninspired; a single gunshot, fired with unmistakable intent, before more than a dozen witnesses. He'd killed a man, and it had been _dull_.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Sherlock startles so violently at the voice behind him that he falls over, twisting and scrabbling backwards, away from the threat. It is extremely undignified.

 

“Easy Sherlock, it’s me.”

 

Watson. He’d forgotten he was behind him.

 

“We lost you for a minute then.”

 

They’re alone in the flat, and Sherlock shivers. It feels too intimate, being here like this in the flesh, John calling him by his first name.

 

He feels like someone might swoop down and arrest him for ‘crimes against nature’, which is absurd, because they’re not in his mind palace, and this isn’t the nineteenth century. This is 2015, and it’s not indecent for a gentleman to use another’s Christian name. No one is going to arrest him for being what he is. No.

 

They’ll arrest him for having murdered a man in cold blood.

 

He grounds himself into the present.

 

“Where’s Mary, Mycroft?”

 

John sighs; evidently he’s missed something, again. His mind is clearer, and he smells of disinfectant; hospital. And judging by the soreness in his throat, he’s had his stomach pumped at some point. Delightful.

 

“Mycroft’s gone off to god knows where trying to sort out this mess. Mary went home.”

 

Judging by the way he says it, there’s been an argument, likely she disapproves of John staying here. But things are still tense between them so she’s hesitant to push it; she understands John’s need to protect Sherlock, even if she secretly resents it.

 

_Mary, Mary._

“Quite contrary,” he murmurs without thinking. He shouldn’t have said that, it must be the residual drugs in his system, bypassing his filters.

 

“I’m sorry?” John asks in confusion.

 

Sherlock waves him away, realising belatedly that he’s still sitting on the floor.

 

They settle in their chairs, and Sherlock’s brain is still reeling with shock, trying to compute how everything has led to this. It seems too good to be true.

 

“So then; Moriarty, what’s the plan?”

 

Oh John, faithful to him without end. He trusts that Sherlock knows what he’s doing, and the extent of his loyalty is staggering. He’s going to have to let him down; _again_.

 

He doesn’t say anything right away; he stares at John, running his eyes over every wrinkle, every detail, every atom of his face. He must remember him, can’t leave anything out, they won’t let him stay here forever, he must use the time they have left wisely.

 

“Sherlock?” John questions, and the concern in his voice is unbearable.

 

How can he still care, how can he still have it in him to give a single damn about Sherlock Holmes? He’s let him down so many times in so many ways. Just today he’d torn down everything John believed about him, showing his true colours.

 

John had thought him a detective, and he’d gone and shot a man right between the eyes, without so much as a sliver of remorse. John had thought him clean, self-controlled, but instead he finds out that Sherlock is really just an unprincipled drug addict with not a single redeeming quality.

 

How can John still be concerned for him? Why did he stay, knowing everything he knows now? Any other man would have turned away, never looking back. The depth of his compassion is overwhelming.

 

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

 

“What? I thought you said-”

 

“I _lied_. It was all lies John. I have no _idea_ ; I don’t know what to do.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head bitterly, disgusted with himself. He’s tricked John into following him again, under false pretences. He may not be a fraud in some respects, but the newspapers were still right about him.

 

He’s a master manipulator, he drew John in and built himself up in his eyes, letting John’s mind mould him into something he is not. John still thinks that he’s always right, that knows exactly what he’s doing, that he’s hot on the trail.

 

No one deceives like an addict.

 

He doesn’t want to look at John and see his disillusionment at Sherlock’s shameful defeat, doesn’t want John’s belief in him to fade.

 

“Oh,” John breathes, and it should be disappointed but it’s not; it’s _understanding_. He knows that Sherlock has used this as a way to get out, to avoid being reduced to a prisoner; a caged animal, and he doesn't disapprove.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

John doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t move, and Sherlock wishes he would be angry. Why isn’t he angry, why doesn’t he hate him? Why can’t he see what Sherlock _is_?

 

Sherlock decides to rip off the band aid, to deliver the blow now and get it over with.

 

“I was going to die,” He says curtly, “they were sending me to my death. I wasn’t coming back this time John.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You _what?_ ”

 

“I know you weren’t coming back, Mycroft told me.”

 

_“He promised!”_

Mycroft swore he wouldn’t tell him, they had agreed!

“Yeah he told me that too, you git; _after_ the plane turned around.”

 

“Oh.”

 

So Mycroft hadn’t actually gone behind his back; he’d waited until the stay of execution had been granted. He’s still not pleased about this, but it hasn't technically broken the specifications of the oath. Bloody Mycroft and his technicalities, always bending a situation to meet his agenda.

 

Sherlock can’t think of a single thing to say.

 

“But that’s not what you were going to tell me, on the airfield.”

 

It’s not the question he’d been expecting, John isn’t angry about being lied to. He’d thought with all the drama of his return, John might have forgotten about what he’d said, or not said.

 

“No, no it isn't,” Sherlock mutters, panic rising; because he _still_ can’t tell him. He scrambles for a plausible lie, something to cover his slip. Because he may be back, but nothing has changed; John is married and he still has to let him go. And if he does say it, it will just make it that much harder when the time comes. That time may be just around the corner.

 

He wants to cry, because it’s not _fair_.

 

He wishes John would stop, that he would just drop it and not force the issue. He wants to beg him not to make him say it, because then everything will change, and as sickening a thought as it is that John will never know, it’s a worse one to think that maybe he will, and it won’t make the slightest bit of difference.

 

_‘Not gay.’_

 

Sherlock doesn’t want John’s pity, his awkward platitudes; _‘it’s fine,’_ ‘ _it won’t change anything’_ , because it _will_ , and not in the way he wants it to.

 

John is about to have a family, and Sherlock will never truly be free, not completely. He’s not sure exactly what the repercussions of Magnussen’s death will be, but they certainly won’t let him off lightly. They might just whisk him away, put him back on that plane the moment the case is solved. He may never have full autonomy in his life ever again.

 

Even if John did somehow...it would be foolish to let anyone else get entangled in that.

 

“Tell me now?”

 

Sherlock shakes his head.

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Why not?”

 

He closes his eyes.

 

~

 

They’re sitting by the fire in his mind, when he dares to broke the question.

 

“Watson, do you believe that a man has a right to be with who he loves, in a consenting partnership?”

 

He has to be careful, so very careful in his phrasing, the timing of each syllable.

 

John’s response is automatic.

 

“Why of course.”

 

“And that if that union is pure and does not harm anyone else, should not what a man does in private, behind closed doors, be of his own business and not that of anyone else?”

 

“I’d say that’s a fair assessment Holmes.”

 

John sinks lower in his chair, relaxed. It’s late and the lights are low, they have no place else to be.

 

“Even if…the law does not approve of such actions?”

 

Watson-John scoffs.

 

“We ourselves have broken the law on numerous occasions, in pursuing a case. If it is as you say, and no one is hurt, then as long as it were done discreetly, I can’t see the harm in it myself.”

 

“Nor can I Watson, nor can I.”

 

“May I ask what this is about Holmes?”

 

Sherlock ignores him, and continues his monologue.

 

“In matters of the heart Watson, is it not so rarely so that a man is able to choose the subject of his affections?”

 

“Quite so, such a thing is indeed uncommon.”

 

“Then if a man loved another through no violation of his own, does that make him wrong; perverse? If a man has no say in whom it is that he loves, should he be persecuted for it anyway?”

 

He doesn’t wait for a response, powering on. He needs to concentrate, to lay this out in the correct order, slowly ease them into it, he cannot afford any distractions. In this day and age, everything hangs in the balance.

 

“Should a man be legally bound to suppress his own nature, as God created him? And if a man were to have been given by nature, certain…impulses, by forces beyond his control, would it be entirely immoral for him to act on such impulses?”

 

“We cannot cheat human nature, Holmes, surely you know that, we are taught to love all God’s creatures.”

 

Sherlock hesitates, he’s walking on shaky ground, and he must do his best to approach this with subtlety, or the consequences may be devastating. They are dangerously approaching the point of no return; there is something in the air, and he thinks perhaps Watson feels it too.

 

“Are we speaking in the strictest of confidences?”

 

“Why Holmes!” John (?) is offended by the question of his loyalty; “You may be certain of it.”

 

“As you know, I am somewhat of an eccentric disposition…”

 

“Ha! To say the least.”

 

“But do I not still deserve my own freedom, as pertaining to matters of the heart?”

 

John softens, and he looks to him kindly.

 

“Of course Holmes, you deserve to be loved just as much as the next person; every man does.”

 

“There are no exceptions to this rule?”

 

“None.”

 

“Even taking into consideration everything that has been said to-day?”

 

“A man is what a man is Holmes, one cannot avoid it.”

 

“Should a man be afraid to accept what he is, to be ashamed of his desires, even though he did not choose them? Should a man ever be hanged for merely daring to love another? And should that man be asked to forsake all happiness to sustain his innocence?

 

“Can a crime ever be considered against nature, when it was nature that made the man what he is?”

 

 ~~Watson~~ John ponders this.

 

“Well, it depends on the crime.”

 

He pauses.

 

“Tell me Watson; what do you think on the recent case against Mr Oscar Wilde?”

 

“I myself, mourn the loss of such a great mind in academic circles.”

 

“Do you think his actions warrant such extreme measures?”

 

“I am willing to concede, in the confines of this conversation, that the penalties against him could be considered unjust. Many at Scotland Yard, your friend Inspector Lestrade included, spoke rather critically of his arrest; they were reluctant to bring charges against him.”

 

“So you believe, above all else, that a union of love between two people is sacred, and should thus be allowed to flourish?”

 

“I do.”

 

They have reached the critical point.

 

“Even if…even if the union is between two gentlemen?”

 

He holds his breath.

 

“Holmes…it is a felony.” Watson whispers gravely.

 

Perhaps he has gone a step too far in stating it outright, for up until this point, the subject had seemed to be well received. It is frustrating that they are unable to speak freely, that Watson would come this far only to balk and back away from his words.

 

“But is it _immoral_?” He asks; the question heavy with urgency.

 

When John doesn’t respond straight away, he keeps talking, voice rising in anxiety.

 

“Think about what we have already said. The point of this conversation is not that it is a crime, but whether or not it _should_ be. Look at the arguments laid before you, the bases we have already agreed upon. In reflection, is it really so wrong, so _offensive_ to consider that a man may be allowed to love another man, in the privacy of his own home?”

 

“If no third party is concerned, and no man abused, then why _must_ it be deemed immoral? Who are we to decide this? If love is always pure, then what makes the situation any different where there is a substitution of gender? Such a notion is innately hypocritical, and you know how I loathe inconsistency.”

 

He throws his arms into the air in angry frustration.

 

“If a man loved another man the way he loved a woman, purely and wholeheartedly, should he not be left in peace?”

 

“So I ask you again! _Is. it._ I _mmoral?”_

 

He desperately searches John's face, praying that he hasn't read this horribly wrong.

 

“Hypothetically…no, I would say it is not, though to insinuate so publically would mean my ruin.”

 

They both take pause, and they’re cautious, but Sherlock feels more assured in his optimism for his blogger. It is not enough; he has to be 100% certain of John's loyalties. John Watson is a man driven primarily by moral principle, and thus if John takes exception to this fact, it may just be their end.

 

“So you concede that homosexuality is not in essence; morally unjustified?”

 

“I…I do concede it, yes.” John admits hesitantly, and Sherlock sighs in relief. He shifts, frowning, “Holmes where is this coming from?”

 

“I apologise if I have made you uncomfortable Watson, but I needed to know your opinion on such matters.”

 

“This is of importance to you?”

 

“Yes." Sherlock pauses, heart leaping into his throat; "For it seems…that Mr Wilde may not be an isolated case.”

 

John's eyes widen, but he does not dare to drop his gaze.

 

“Do you…do you mean to tell me that you are…a sodomite?”

 

Sherlock bristles, “If you must be so crass about it Watson.”

 

“My sincerest apologies Holmes, I had no idea.”

 

“Yes, well,” He looks away, “It is a sensitive topic. I did not know if you would react favourably, I still do not. So tell me; do I repulse you?”

 

“Never.”

 

Sherlock tilts his head questioningly at the immediacy and firmness of the reply.

 

“Even knowing what you now do?”

 

“Even then.”

 

“And why is that?”

 

John clears his throat, and with the bravery of a soldier, looks Sherlock straight in the eye.

 

“You have presented a reasonable argument, and…as Wilde himself said; though in this century such practises are wildly misunderstood, I do not deem them unnatural, and it is an injustice that there ever be ‘a love that dare not speak its name’.”

 

The look in John’s eyes is tender and fond, there is promise there, absolution.

 

“You are my dearest of friends, Holmes, and if you think I would turn my back on you for this, for simply being what you are, then you are gravely mistaken.”

 

Sherlock swallows down a rush of emotion, tears threatening to form behind his eyes.

 

“Oh my dear John, as always you have the capacity to surprise me.”

 

John looks amused.

 

“Since when have you called me John?”

 

Sherlock backpedals; alarmed at his slip.

 

“I...didn’t mean to be impertinent, If I have offended you in any way...”

 

“No, it’s fine; it’s all fine…Sherlock.”

 

John smiles.

 

~

 

Back in the present, Sherlock takes a deep breath.

 

“John, I do believe I have something to tell you…”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one off, and I have no intention of writing a sequel, but I hope you enjoyed reading it regardless.
> 
> The phrase ' a love that dare not speak it's name' that Watson quotes is an excerpt from a poem called 'Two Loves,' written by Lord Albert Douglas, lover of Oscar Wilde, the reference was used in evidence during his trial, shortly before he was sentenced to two years hard labour for practicing homosexuality.
> 
> Sherlock saying 'Quite Contrary' was inspired by the beautiful work of the same name by hollyesque, which is a favourite of mine.


End file.
